One Last Beginning
by Poefay
Summary: The year was 1936 and the world was picking sides. Italia Romano makes a choice to take a stand. Come hell and high water he will fight. And in doing so, in picking a side, Romano comes to embody the partisan movement. History, tough choices, and eventual Spamano. Rating to go up once the blood starts to flow.


A/N: It's been a long while since I've delved into a fandom...Here's chapter one of this venture although it's a prologue more than anything - Enjoy.

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The young man stood with his back to the door of his childhood home, refusing to turn and gaze upon the angry, confused, betrayed eyes of his love. His heart throbbed even as he stepped onto the dusty road that lead away from everything to which he'd ever clung. The first steps were the most difficult; it felt as if lead had replaced the blood in his veins as he willed his body to bend, to move, to walk away. Behind him the heavy door of ancient oak closed shut, bolts clicking into to place.

Come hell or high water, there would be no going back.

He had known this and it hadn't turned him from this course. Never before had Italia Romano been so sure of the rightness of his decision. Whether he would succeed or fail, whether relationships could be mended in time or never be repaired, whether this move would end his life as a nation or not, he did not know. But he had made the right decision. That much, that alone, was clear to him. For once in his long existence he was going to do some good. This knowledge steeled his nerves as he journeyed alone into the murky unknown.

Romano had spent his life running away. It was just his knee-jerk reaction when confronted with problems of all shapes and sizes. When it was time for chores he had run and hid away in the recesses of Spain's house. When his government came knocking on his door with evermore paperwork, tedious and mundane, he slipped out the back. In times of danger he ran from his enemies, letting others spill their blood in his wars. If others came around, cooing and cawing over his brother, he turned and fled least they look over and see the failed first attempt at Italy. He ran knowing that he abandoned his duties and shirked responsibilities. He knew he failed those relying upon him. And he ran from those he cared for so as not to fail them further. He ran to avoid facing the countless cruelties sewn into the fabric of the world.

But no more. This time...this time Romano could not let others fight in his stead for no other was willing to fight this fight. And if no one fought this battle, something important could be - would be- lost. He could feel it in his bones. The world was not wont to handing out second chances. No, the world preferred starting from scratch and chaos. Romano knew this too. He had stood witness to it countless times. It was a truth seared into his mind, body, and soul: there are no such things as second chances when it comes to history. Yet, it seemed that his fellow nations were prepared to turn a blind eye towards history .England and France let their armies idle. America kept his own council. Russia looked to his own interests.

As of late the world had turned apathetic towards the troubles of others. There was too much in their own homes to be troubled by, and no one was in the mood for another war, not after that last one. Romano lest of all wanted another war; he had never cared for battles. Blood was the drug of other nations. There was no glory in death. He cared for good food and lazy afternoons spent soaking in the sun. He would sit on the bottom step barefoot so he might feel the rich soil of his land. He smiled as he thought of his home, tucked away in the hills outside of Rome, the Eternal City, the city of his grandfather...

With a sigh Romano pushed onwards, veering off the main drive up to the house. Even after all the centuries, Romano could never quite think of Rome as _his _city, it was always his grandfather's. It was the legacy that loomed over Romano, the shadow he had grown up in, the mantel which would never wear as well.

Reaching inside his pocket he drew out a coin crumbling with age. Romano swept his thumb over the familiar, weathered portrait of a bygone emperor wreathed by a motto too worn for anyone to read. He knew it by heart: _Humanitas – Felicitas - Libertas_.

Even after the lapse of seventy generations, he could remember peeking through the curtains shrouding his grandfather's deathbed, being caught, and then, with a sigh beckoned close. Rome wheezed and coughed as he sat up in bed. His voice was not the sound of booming confidence, but Romano obeyed when instructed to hold out his hand. Romano expected a thwack but felt only a weight dropping into his hands. A coin, a gift, a memento. It had been warm and a young Romano had studied the face in curiosity, a bit too young to read the words and far too young to understand what they actually meant.

Humanitas, Felicitas, Libertas. Humanity, Felicity, Liberty. These were what Rome had been about, more than mere mortar and brick, it had been these ideas that had made Rome great. This was his grandfather's legacy. Romano would fight to ensure its survival.

There could be no running from one's past.

The shadows grew, stretching into skeletal figures as the curtains slowly fell on yet another day. Romano pushed through the hedges on the far western edge of Spain's homestead, emerging onto a road.

On the horizon lay Madrid. Black smoke rose from the city.


End file.
